Boy Wonder's Moves
by Chaogirl
Summary: Inspired by a painting I found online by Pamalina H. In which Robin Tim Drake is depicted as a mohawked, tattooed punk. Set several years after Return of the Joker, starts from Slade Wilson's POV after he discovers Punk Rock Robin. Then it meanders.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I saw this picture on the internet .com/pamelina_ , and I tried to think of a scenario where Robin grew up to be that punk. Naturally, being who I am, I decided that it must be the trauma he suffered in "Return of this Joker" that caused him to go down that path.

This story is about Slade Wilson running into that Robin.

Why Slade? Because I like him.

…………..

Slade never really enjoyed St. Louis. It had plenty of good aspects. History, museums, architecture, decent schools, sports teams, and best of all, no heroes. It was always business though, when he came to St Louis, and he never lingered longer then the job called for. If you've seen one city in the Midwest, you've seen them all.

The job, however, called for it, so here he was.

He was here because Jesper St. Clair was here. A week ago his lawyer petitioned that the trial be relocated. The move was granted. In three days Mr. St. Clair will be moved to his new holding cell in Downtown St. Louis. The media will not be there, the guard contingency will be relatively light, and in other words, it will be an ideal time for Slade's maneuver.

In the meantime, he has other tasks to occupy him. Prep work if you will.

So that is why today he was in downtown St. Louis, taking in the local color. The clean Midwestern business men and women, speaking with their clean Midwestern city accents (devoid of most local flavor), the occasional bum. Tonight would be a game night, so a few early revelers have already moved in to the downtown area festooned in their local sports team's colors.

It was hard to miss the punk. That presumably was the purpose of his bizarre ensemble. And his little girlfriend was no better, for her orange…. Garment? Was that a full body leotard under her lab coat? The boy was clearly trying to emulate, or maybe mock, the fallen hero, Robin. Red wife beater and shorts over green long johns, with a cape. Eye makeup filling a role normally played by the traditional domino mask.

They made a shameless display of their public affection causing anyone who dared wander too close to their park bench to grow uncomfortable.

Slade was staying away, mostly for his own comfort. He had business in this area, so he hung back and tried not to give them too much of the attention they were obviously craving. Almost inaudibly, an alarm sounded. A tinny beeping noise came from the punks. Curiously, Slade watched, more for his entertainment then for any serious reason, she pulled back, looked at her watch, pressed a button, and started to stand up. He was obviously not done with her, and made it known by trying to forcefully pull her back into another kiss. She reacted with a casual degree of violence, a well placed fist, not at his head, but at a point a few inches behind his head. This is interesting, Slade thought. He could appreciate a bit of violence, her form was decent, her stance acceptable for the circumstances, it lacked much panache, but she had clearly had a few lessons. The boy however, reacted remarkably, with almost fluid grace he dodged, allowing himself to simply roll off the bench in a boneless tumble, laughing. She took the opportunity to step back a few paces, flip him off, and walk away. Not far, Slade noticed, she stopped at a local art gallery and walked in. The boy rose, with the same liquid grace he had exhibited earlier, brushed himself off (as though he could become cleaner with that simple action) and acted as though nothing had happened.

Something curious about the boy, Slade noticed. His grace, his moves, Slade wondered why someone with those skills would dress in mockery of the Boy Wonder.

At least Slade thought that until the kid turned his way. Without looking at anyone of the spectators in particular, the boy shrugged, as if in apology for the scene that just occurred, and only Slade's many years of self discipline kept him from gasping. This social pariah wasn't mocking Robin, he WAS Robin. Tim Drake to be precise. The very same Robin who had fallen off the grid several years ago.

Slade, of course, was familiar with the story behind that. He makes it his business to keep abreast of the goings on in the Superhero community. Nasty business that was, the kid really deserved better. On the streets only three years and what remarkable progress he had made in only that short amount of time. He had shown such potential; Slade had considered offering him the same apprentice position Dick Greyson had declined. Not after, of course. Slade Wilson had no use for the Joker's broken toys. Neither did the Batman, if Tim's presence here were to indicate things.

Interesting, Slade would have to mull it over later however. The van he had been waiting for had finally shown up. Time to do some work.

…….

Slade had wrapped up his affairs in record time. Really, he should just ditch town, but he wanted to do a little sight seeing first. Curiosity was really getting the best of him.

So Thursday morning he returned to the scene where he had spotted the Boy Wonder. At the art gallery, the door was locked, but a sign on the door announced several art shows that Friday. Of the three featured artists, only one was female, Hester Sinclair, with her show "Scar Tissue".

Slade was feeling: cultured, so he mentally began rearranging his schedule to include an additional day in St Louis in order that he might take in the local art scene.

…..

Author's note: Ok, this is enough for now. I'm going to publish this 'as is' and update later. Let me know what you think, I really really do appreciate feed back.


	2. Chapter 2

The art show was certainly interesting. The wine was long gone by the time he arrived, and the snacks picked through, but the works left him more then a little disgusted anyway, certainly did not stimulate his appetite.

He almost thought he wouldn't see the boy wonder there, he only supposed that this gallery had anything to do with him. But there, he saw the boy and the girl too. They were hiding from the guests on a bench under the stairwell. Heads together, talking furtively, quite animated. The boy reached to push a lock of hair from her face, she followed his hand with her eyes, and then with her own hand, as if he had not performed the task completely to her satisfaction, and she looked at him, and she said something indiscernible, and then they laughed.

Slade weighed the option of approaching them, they seem not to have noticed him yet, but he had nothing to lose, and he was ever curious as to the boy wonder's current lifestyle. The kid had made an effort to appear civilized tonight, knit skull cap hid the unsightly hair, and his clothes were nondescript if not exactly tidy either.

The debate to approach or not was solved when the kid leaned over and whispered something into the girls ear, and they both looked up at him, with eyes still sparkling with laughter. Slade delayed no longer, he walked over to them.

"So" he started, "is this your work?" he said to the girl, looking around him at the many photographs framed on the walls.

"no" she said, still smiling, "but I did take the pictures"

Slade looked at the nearest photo, a small child badly burned. All the photos were like that, photos of scars, photos that told stories of abuse and war and neglect.

"well that's good at least" he said quietly

"Though from what I've heard, it may be possible that some of these are your works" She said, with that ever present all knowing smile that both of them sported. "I had spent several weeks in Rwanda around April last year; I'm to understand you also like African travel"

"No" he said "I strive for a very… I guess you might say, 'precise' feeling to all of my work"

"so what brings you here" finally the boy spoke up. His voice was much like Slade remembered it, all the bravado, and the swagger, but deeper now, time does that to young men.

"Curiosity, mostly, you?"

"I just came for the snacks"

"hey Mister" the girl adds, "do you have a car?"

"Why do you ask?"

"We need a ride, this place is dull, gonna hit a party, up north, need a ride"

"what kind of party"

"the rough kind, thought you might dig it, although it's certainly not going to call for any of your surgical precision"

Rough, was how she described the party. Slade hadn't fully appreciated that until she walked in, slammed a beer, and broke the empty bottle over the head of a fellow reveler. Apparently the whole crowd at that party had been waiting for that moment. Clustered together in that dim crowded warehouse, probably without any legal right to that space. Amazing, how tense the crowd was, that they held out for her to start the blows. And then all hell broke lose. Boy Wonder wasted not a moment, and leaped into action, green hair blazing, fists and feet clearing his path, he moved with an animal grace. She held her own too, less grace, more moxy, she seemed to clear her path through force of will alone. No one dared stand against either of them for long. For his part, Slade mostly watched; he was here for curiosity; he had enough of this kind of thing in his daily work.

He watched them for hours. He could watch this for days. It was pure, and it was perfect, whatever it was, his grace and skill, her moxy and gumption, teamed up against the world. It was poetry.

But all things must end, and after what felt like far too short a time, he sensed, more then heard or saw, the local government law enforcement officials arrive. Wading through a sea of violence, he retrieved the objects of his attention, dragging them kicking and screaming to the back door, and out before the cops even burst in.

From the driver's seat of his rental, he looked at her, in the passenger seat, bleeding from a swollen eye, and a cut on her scalp that looked superficial, sneering at him still for removing her before her time.

"where too" he said.

A moment passed, he thought they'd leave the car, return to face the cops, but finally she replied "south on 170 to the Forest Park exit"

From then on she tersely gave him directions, while the Boy Wonder, more seriously wounded from the heavier fighting he encountered remained silent in the backseat.


	3. Chapter 3

She finally told him to find a parking spot on a non descript street in a neighborhood that smelled faintly of poverty without overwhelming the viewer. The buildings on the street mixed between houses, and two or four family flats. The building they moved towards was one of the four families, a green glowing porch light was left on. She opened the door without unlocking it, they didn't even bother with locks. "we like the green light" she says, not necessarily to Slade however, "reminds him of kryptonite, makes him feel safe"

The inside is tidy, but shabby. Old furniture, old light fixtures, old hardwood floors. The front door led right to the living room, the door opened at the end of the room showing the bedroom. She hit a switch and helped the Tim, he was staggering by this point, quite a few superficial cuts to the scalp, and maybe a few too many blows to the head.

The injuries didn't stop Tim from smiling broadly at her. A wide eyed happy smile, like a child. She smiled back, looped an arm under him and helped him through the apartment. She never told Slade he couldn't come in, so he follows them back through the shotgun apartment as she helps Tim to the bathroom. Set him down on the john, then rummaged around a cupboard for the supplies she needed. Pulling out a box, she extracted sutures and related supplies.

"hey" she says, "my camera's in the top shelf of the bureau"

Slade silently retrieves it. She wanted to photograph Tim before she sewed him up.

"you do this often?"

"naw" she says from behind her camera lens, "they only throw a party like that a few times a year"

"I meant the sutures" he was hoping to get some clue behind this girl.

"Used to be a field medic in the army" was her only reply, as she set down the camera and got to work. Tim didn't say anything during their exchange, wide blue eyes following the conversation between them.

Later when she snipped the last knot off the thread, she said "all done", and touched Tim's cheek with tenderness and care.

"what about you?" it was the first thing Tim spoken since the party, he reached up and touched the dried blood at her scalp wound.

"what do you think Mister? Think I need stitches too?" She said to Slade.

He took her request seriously; leaning over her he examined the wound. "It's already closing, just clean it good, you'll be fine"

"Why don't you boys get out of here then, while I jump in the shower" She helped Tim to stand, but Tim didn't really act like he needed it. With a simple gesture she shooed them both out. Slade followed the woozy former Boy Wonder to the Kitchen at the back of the apartment.

"it's silent here since the neighbors moved out" Boy Wonder said unprompted, "We're the last tenets in this building"

The kid plopped down at the table.

The kitchen like the rest of the apartment is old but tidy. The dishes are put away, the table is cleared off.

"Since you're by the fridge, you mind pouring me a drink?" The kid asks.

They can both hear the shower starting in the next room.

Slade smirks, isn't that what he's supposed to do? He smirks, and opens cupboards until he finds glasses. The cupboards are not overly full, but the contents are well organized.

Setting the glass down he opens the fridge, it's mostly empty. "I think the milk's still good" he hears the kid say, so he pours him a glass of milk.

He wonders what Alfred would think of this situation, not that he'd ever interacted with Tim's former butler, but he made it a point to know all about that family.

"you want something to eat?" Slade asks, "I saw some eggs in there"

Boy wonder only shrugs. So Slade rummages until he finds an appropriate pan, he cooks enough for the girl too, she might be hungry.

The kid eats like he's famished. She emerges later with dripping hair, and smiles when she sees the food, but she barely eats anything, scrapping most of her food onto Tim's plate.

Later when the dishes had been stacked in the sink she looks at Slade and asks "You want to crash here to tonight?" She'd always been more forward between the two of them.

"there's a futon in the living room" She shifts her eyes, a moment of embarrassment or discomfort.

He declines, politely.

When he pulls away in his car, he only circles the block and parks again. Sneaking on silent feet, he creeps to their window, and looks in. He doesn't intend to spy, but he just wants to see. He sees the boy with his head on her pajama clad bosom weeping, and she gives what comfort she has to give. Boy wonder moves his head, and for a moment it seems he is looking straight at Slade through his tears, but Slade was careful to conceal himself, so he knows that can not be.

He returns to his hotel. He lays down, he sleeps in his generic hotel bed, and dreams of children who grew up too fast. He dreams of his sons, in his dream his child has dark hair and rests his weeping face on his mother's pajama clad bosom.

When he awakens that morning he's more then a little shocked to see a familiar, yet foreign domino mask lying on the counter next to the hotel bathroom sink. Some how, someone had left that there, and he's pretty sure he knows who, but not how.

Curious.

Its several weeks before he returns to St Louis, but the apartment is vacant when he does. He easily bypasses the landlord's security measures and steps into the rooms they had rented. They'd left most of the old furniture. He can still almost smell them.

He wonder's if he could find them if he wanted too, and he almost tries, but he has better things to do, and he never really liked St. Louis anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note, thought I'd try something new. This is from the girl's point of view. I haven't fully decided who she is yet, beyond an absolute certainty she has a painful, terrible past. I gave her name as Hester St Clair in a previous chapter, but that could have been a pseudonym, I'm still figuring that out.

I still don't know where this is going. The last chapter, and this one too, I feel have enough of an ending I could stop right there, but I'll keep writing as long have ideas. I promise to never end in the middle of a story idea.

I think my next chapter will be from Tim's POV, anyone have any input on that?

…………………………………

She remembers the night she ran into Slade Wilson pretty well. Few things that interesting ever happen to her. It was quite exciting. She knew Tim was surprised that man didn't turn up again, but she wasn't. She was pretty sure though that globe trotting rich mercenaries tried to avoid the common riff raff.

That's how she thought of herself, maybe not Tim, but definitely herself. She was riff raff. She'd found ways to travel the world with little more then a handful of American cash and a smile, but it was far from glamorous.

It had been hard when she first found Tim. He'd stopped to talk to her after an art show in Kansas City (she hated Kansas City, as far as she was aware, Tim was the best thing that ever happened to her in Kansas City) He had talked to her, shown her his scars. She slept that night in his hotel room, and has spent every subsequent night at his side. Or afternoon, or morning. They were both night people. It was hard adapting to being part of something, of having someone else to rely on, but she made it.

Now she sat on the beach, catching some rays outside a makeshift shack smoking a cigarette. She hadn't taken up smoking until recently; it had always seemed like such a slow means of self destruction. Her previous attempts kept failing though, so she figured smoking would eventually pay off, a surefire bet.

She couldn't even remember what country they were in any more. Brazil, most likely. They lived in a shanty town on the beach. Soon the bulldozers of the rich white men will come and evict them, and they'll move on. Tim comes home later with some fish he had caught. Enough to eat tonight, tomorrow she'll figure something else out.

It's three weeks before the bulldozers come. They hit the road; they take very little with them. Tim taught her so much about just living off the land, they don't hardly even need money out here. After almost a month, they arrive in Rio. Cities are good, she knows cities. Sometimes she wishes they were back in the states, it was easier in the states. She gets a job cleaning houses for rich Americans. He gets a job driving tourists in bicycle taxis. Tourists love him, he's pretty, and American (he'd had her clip the last of the green hair off months ago). She's pretty sure he's not hooking up for cash, but he makes such good tips that she sometimes wonders. Life is ok, she buys another camera. They don't make much between them, but they make enough. She spends her free time taking snapshots. Mailing rolls of film to her sister's house in Chicago, to be developed later. She knows her sister likes that. Likes to receive some proof of her continued existence.

All the smoking gives her a cough. She smiles, it's starting to pay off.

It only takes Rio a few months to get old, she wonders if it's time to bail. That's what she's thinking when she shows up to her house cleaning job, the owners are….

The owners are quite dead. Precisely dead. She takes a few of their most portable valuables and leaves without contacting the authorities. She regrets that she couldn't photograph them first, but she didn't have her camera. Anyway, its better not to have evidence.

When she tells Tim about it later, he looks at her seriously, makes her describe the details again. She has an excellent memory.

She knows Tim's mind is working. He's silent for a long time. "It's Slade" he finally says.

They eat, they screw, they split the remnants of a bottle of American whiskey he nicked off a tourist. Or at least he pretends to, she knows he's barely touching it. She starts to doze when she feels the mattress shift. Tim leaves their rented room. He doesn't return for hours.

He gets up and goes to work the next day. She has no where to go due to the untimely demise of her employers. So instead she takes the valuables she nicked from the house, trades them for less then their worth, but she wasn't in the right mind to haggle today. It's enough.

She takes her money to a cantina. Not one by their room, she doesn't want to be recognized.

She orders food and a beer. Hadn't had a beer in ages, and damn was it good. Today was good, she got paid, she got a beer. Later that night it was almost a sure bet she'd get laid.

And then Slade shows up.

She ought to be scared, but she's not. That's actually the first thing he says to her. "you know who I am, but you're not scared"

She smirks, she knows she's good at smirking; she's practiced the gesture a thousand times in front of a mirror. "The worst you can do is torture and kill me" she replies.

He's silent for a long time, when the waiter returns he orders a beer, and another for her, he pays the waiter before she can react.

"why are you kids in Rio? " He asks after a long pause. Not an awkward pause, she stopped having those years ago. She's always supremely comfortable, and her silences never seem awkward. To her anyways.

"We're just south for the winter" she replies. "Why'd you kill my boss that was a sweet gig I had there"

He looked at her coolly through one grey eye. "You know the gentleman in question had certain hobbies pertaining to girls of your description that I doubt you'd approve of"

She'd suspected as much, but the thought never disturbed her "I could have taken him" she said. And she knew it was true, sometimes she thought she'd taken the job there in the hopes that he'd try something with her. She wasn't the detective Tim was, but she had seen it, the times that he had cleaned the house himself, the clothes that never made it to the cleaner, and the frightened way his wife deferred to him. He never met her eyes, but he always loaded his smile with sugar for her. Everything about him had screamed murder to her. She was glad he had died.

"You can't expect me to believe you offed him on my account" she said. She met his cool grey eye without fear.

"no" was all he replied.

They sipped their beer in strange silence.

"why are you here" she finally asks. That had been the main question all afternoon.

"I had hoped to scare you away from Tim"

"why"

"I want him"

"You can't scare me away; I'm only scared of him leaving"

"I see that now"

They sit, again in silence, her beer is gone. When the waiter returns, Slade orders her a refill.

"Getting me drunk won't help, you know"

"I know"

He finally pays the bill, and leaves. She doesn't stop him; it's time to go home.

She spends the rest the afternoon cleaning their rented room. Straightening things, assessing the value of items. She knows that one way or she won't be living here long. She wonders if Tim is leaving her, and she tells herself about all the ways she doesn't' need him. She almost has herself convinced he wouldn't return when he shows up. And when he does she falls in love with her Boy Wonder all over again.

She loves him for the way he smiles, for the way he moves. She loves him for the way he never laughs, even when he wants too, but only she knows the secret to the amused sparkle in his eye that tells her as much as his absent chuckles every would.

She laughs as she makes his dinner, beans and rice, simple fare, but she spices it up and adds a sweet potato that hadn't gone bad yet. She listens to him recount his day, she smirks as he recounts a story of an American man who hired Tim to take him to the Red Light district, he tipped poorly so Tim recommended he see Lola Lola, who infamously had several embarrassing STDs.

And when her laughter stopped, she sobered up. "I saw Slade today" and it was a simple statement, but it made Tim grow deathly still.

"What did Slade say?" he asked.

She recounted their conversations. She thought about leaving out the part where Slade briefly mention Tim, but she knew Tim would detect if she was lying.

Tim's hardened expression softens as he reads the thoughts crossing her face throughout her recount of the days events. A tenderness he seldom reveals crosses his visage as he raises a hand to her face. "Aw baby, you know I'd never leave, I'm lost without you"

She's pretty sure he isn't lying. "You're all the laughter I have left" he adds, and she knows that's true.

Later they count up their life savings, and make plans to sell what they can from their meager belongings in the morning. She mails her last roll of film the next day while he sells her camera. She'll miss it, but she'll buy another.

They catch a bus out of Rio, she never looks back.


	5. Chapter 5

He watches her take a pull off her cigarette. She is different in every way. No one could have ever prepared him for the girl.

Lounged on the bed with her feet on the wall, she holds her cigarette between nicotine stained fingers. Fingers that bring the cigarette the right corner of her lips, lips that purse around the cancer like a kiss. Her hand that falls away, unaware and unconcerned over the destined landing spot of ash falling away from her smoke.

No one has made smoking this sexy. Her head rolls toward him, she catches his eye, she smiles. He loves her smiles. Her smiles are brutally honest. She is brutally honest. She never holds back, she never bites her tongue. She's utterly reckless, only reckless people can bear to be honest, she would say.

Her voice has grown husky from the smoking. He wishes she would quit, but not when she makes it look this sexy.

He does not smile back, he never smiles anymore, not when he's being honest, and he's always honest with her. He's reckless enough for that. But even though his face doesn't pull into the now unfamiliar lines of a smile, he's pretty sure she can see the desire to smile lurking in his face. Not to smile per se, it's a hard thing to describe. The expression known to others as a smile is no longer in his repertoire, the up turned curve of the lips the crinkle of the cheeks. He still feels the amusement, he still has the emotion, his lips don't move. He remembers how it was before, in their apartment in St Louis, he remembers smiling. He feels like he's grown up so much since then.

It's only been 3 years.

She's grown since then for sure. Grown cynical, grown jaded. Grown addicted, every item she has ever owned now bears the scent of her nicotine addiction.

He can remember when her greatest joy was the curve of a scar and a single reckless moment. They were both now 23, had so much changed.

Chronologically only a matter of a few years had passed since the time he had freely smiled, since the year they shacked up in the shotgun apartment. He wonders who lives there now.

From their not nearly as nice apartment, with cement walls in the basement of a Miami complex he can fondly remember the 4 family flat they used to live in. The other families gone. Sometimes he thinks about taking the car and going there. The car is in her name. He won't use his name on anything serious. Car loans and leases, he knows that even now Wayne is watching.

From the bed she watches him remember, her full honest smile still on her lips. He's thought about what she will be like when he's gone, and in his imagined scenarios she's sad, but she's always OK.

He's known her since they were kids it seems now, since they were kids in Kansas City at least, and he knows that much about her, she's always OK.

He can see her feet braced against the wall, and he can see the scars she hides from anyone but him, and it's more then apparent to him that she's always ok. Each foot missing two toes from incidents she won't talk about. Scars on the top of the feet, also that she doesn't talk about. He thinks then about her constant catch phrase "the worst you can do is torture and kill me" she's never said it without meaning it. The worst he could do, that anyone could do, is torture and kill her. She's not worried, after all, that's the worst that could happen. He's pretty sure she's already survived the worst thing in the world.

It's 9pm; it's time to hit the road. He's been working the bicycle taxi in every city since Rio. He likes it; he likes the way his body feels when his heart is pumping when he's pushing it.

"Going to work?" she asks from her vantage on the bed.

"yep" Single word answer was all he could muster.

He wonders if she knows he's not coming back. Her smile gives away nothing.

He drags the bicycle cab out of the apartment.

Rides down town, puts up his fee sign and waits for revelers to climb aboard. His first fare of the night is Slade. He's not surprised. He's run into Slade more times then he'd ever admit to the girl

"Where to?" He pulls his face into the smile he doesn't mean. Smile for the customers, it's good for business.

"Hong Kong"

"Can't get you there in a bike cab mister"

"I know" Slade's steely gaze is focused on him intently. "Just take me around down town; I want to see the sights"

Slade doesn't say anything else for awhile.

Finally Slade tells him "you can let me off here" it was near the financial district. "Keep the change" Slade hands him an envelop full of cash. When he's gone Tim skims through it, there's a one way ticket to Hong Kong and a note "passports at the receptionists desk, Renaissance Hotel, Washington Ave."

He stops at the hotel before he rides to the airport. He just barely takes his seat before the plane starts to taxi toward the runway . He wishes he had told her goodbye. She'll be ok, she's always ok.

Slade's waiting for him when he exits the airport.


	6. Chapter 6

There's a trick to walking in five inch heels. Took her almost two months to master it. Five inches is the house minimum required height. Taller is better, but she stuck with the minimum. Five inch heel knee high boots. Hooker boots as they are called outside the club. She'll probably always be self conscious of how people view her scarred and malformed feet, so she bought boots, even though they cost more.

She never left Miami. She would have, but it's been harder just to pay the rent on a single income only. Much less save up enough to blow town. That's how she wound up at the strip club. For all the sleeze and filth, the money was good. She discovered her latent talent; parting an honest man from his honest wages with mostly honest tactics.

She was brazen. She remembers a time when her mother called her a brazen hussy. It's good that she's gotten past all that. That she can think of those times and smile at the amazing accuracy of them now. She has very few memories of her mother that can give her cause to smile.

But she's smiling now. Her Cheshire cat smile. A good natured baring of teeth. Her not quite straight teeth. No one seems to notice or mind. She's glad for all the makeup she has to wear. All the eyeliner and mascara screen her true emotions. Can't even tell that the smile never reaches her eyes. The glitter makes her dry laughter sparkle. It's the perfect disguise.

She sees her prey, and she homes in. She notes the watch, the cut of the clothes. He has money, more money then he may admit at first. And he came here, so he must be ready to part with it.

She stops at the bar next to him; she waves down the bartender and places her order, Beefeater Gin with tonic, wedge of lime. The bartender knows her order by now, but she likes saying it out loud. And then, as if noticing him for the first time, she turns to him, and smiles. Radiantly. Or what passes for radiantly in this place.

"Hey stranger" she says with a practiced mix of amusement in her voice. "you like the show tonight?"

He turns to her as though he were just now noticing her, which is a lie. She can read that on him. She knew the way he shifted when she sidled up the bar. She felt the pressure change as she turned to him and spoke. She doesn't know why he's lying with his body language but he is.

His smile is shyly good natured. He's older then her, but not drastically. She figures him near thirty. "Hello" he says. The word that comes to her mind is 'timidity' and for a moment her smile slips. "I saw you dancing earlier" they all say that "You're really good" they all say that too.

"thank you" she says and she's pretty certain it sounds sincere. "I used to be a dancer, I like to think that even though this dancing is crass, I can bring a little bit of art to it"

That is, of course, a lie. She was many things, but she was never a dancer. She danced, at parties and clubs, but never seriously. She could move though, she could survive. That's what she channels when she dances here. That is, when she's not squirming deliberately for a man near her stage offering her money. That part has nothing to do with dancing and everything to with good business.

"You move like a fighter" he says.

And she looks at him, looks for gaps in his timid mask. The only thing she's figured out about him is that there is a secret to figure out. "you fight much, mister?" she asks him. She keeps her smiling mask on. He's not the only one wearing a mask in this conversation.

"More then I'd like to" and he meets her eyes, or tries to, she's confident of the dim lighting in here, of her mask of makeup, she knows her eyes are little more then a shiny center in a well of darkness. After a moment his gaze flickers, and drops and the glint of the lighting behind the bar briefly illuminates his eyes. A deep blue, like the sky in summer. Like the time she went to North Dakota and saw the sky like a bowl, clear and perfect in every direction. When she leaves Miami, that's where she's going.

She didn't recognize him at first, but she knows who has those eyes. She had seen him in photographs.

"I suppose you're here to talk about Tim" she says to Dick Greyson.

His face flashes alarm. She's not sure if he had really expected her to buy his act, or if he's just startled she's so blunt about it.

"I recommend you buy a lap dance, we can get a little privacy, they're sixty a song, but you can tip me extra if you like"

She gets up and heads towards the private suites. She doesn't look back, she knows he's following.

He pays the clubs share to the bouncer at the entrance. "Tip him extra" she says. Her voice is crisp, professional. "Chuck, me and this man need to have a conversation, a private conversation" and she sees a hundred dollar bill pass hands, guaranteeing them privacy.

She leads him to the last suite down the hall. She takes his hand; she pushes him onto the lounge chair and shuts the door behind them. The song was ending, a new one beginning. She smiles again, this time with some degree of meaning that she knows he can't see in her eyes, and she purposely hikes up the skirt of her long evening gown and sits down on his lap astraddle him. She knows it makes him uncomfortable.

"so you came here to ask me about my ex boyfriend" in this position, her face is inches from his. If she had any shame left, she'd feel embarrassed.

"yeah" he swallows audibly, she imagines he wasn't ready for this. She's not sure what he came ready for, this is a strip club, she was a stripper, but clearly not this. She idly contemplates removing the gown all together. That is what she would normally do in this room and in this position. She wonders if it would make him blush.

"ask away" she says, she shifts her hips slightly on his lap. As though by accident.

"You called him your ex boyfriend"

"He walked out on me, pretty clear indication we're through"

"when did you see him last?"

"almost four months ago, it was in June"

"how long was he with you before that?"

"years, we were both 19 when we met, so I guess that makes it close to 4 years that we were together"

"all this time, we couldn't find him…" his voice drifts off.

"Mind if I smoke?" she takes his non reply as a yes and digs through the tiny purse she keeps her tips in for a smoke and a lighter. She struggles to get the cheap plastic lighter to work, it's her only lighter.

"where were you guys all that time?" he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a fancy zippo; lights her cigarette for her.

"we were everywhere" She inhales deeply. "do you want the documentary?"

"yes"

"Sixty bucks a song, plus tips, we're going to be awhile, I hope you brought your platinum card"

"are you suggesting we should go somewhere else"

"I can't leave with the patrons, it's against the rules, I live in 12b at the Harlan Court apartments, I get off at 7am"

He doesn't reply.

"bring breakfast, I don't eat meat"

She gets up. The song was just ending.

She puts her smile back on. "you can tip me extra if you like"

When she walks out she's several hundred dollars richer.

She knew all of Tim's secrets, and by de facto she knew all of Dick Greyson's. Well not all, but enough, a dangerous quantity. She always kind of dreaded the day that Tim's family found her, but now she's kind of excited to get through the rest of her night.

Maybe it's the spring in her step, but she has a good night. The men notice her, and want her. They want the indefinable secret behind her smile, they pay for the privilege of her company.

It takes 7am forever to roll around.

She parks her beat up old car next to a nice motorcycle outside her shitty apartments. No one here can afford anything that nice. She's not surprised to find he had let himself in. He was in the kitchen, making pancakes. For a moment she allowed herself to fantasize she was coming home to someone else.

"I really only expected you to stop at a drive through" she said as she threw her purse on the couch. She hasn't counted it up yet, but she thinks she made almost two grand tonight. In the bedroom she changes into pajamas and slippers, she uses the restroom, she washes her face. She'll shower before she sleeps, but she wants to eat first, and there are other matters she needs to deal with.

When she sits down at her tiny dinette table he's just setting the food out. Orange juice and pancakes and real maple syrup. "I wasn't sure if you ate eggs so I bought egg substitute, I hope they're ok"

She laughs to hear him say that, he sounded genuinely unsure. "I'm sure they're great" and she eagerly digs in. No one has cooked a meal for her since Tim left. Letting that thought slide through her mind silences her laughter.

Dick doesn't ask her any questions as they eat. It's a comfortable silence.

When they're done, he even clears the table and stacks the dishes in the sink.

She moves to the couch to wait for him. It's a lumpy couch covered in stains. It came with the apartment.

When he finally walks over he brings a dinette chair with him. He sits down across from her looking her straight in the eye.

"tell me about Tim" he says.

She sighs, she knew this was coming; it was like picking a scab off a mostly healed wound only to make it bleed again.

"I met Tim almost 4 years ago. In November, at an artshow. My artshow. I used to take photographs. Of people, people with scars. I called it art, I'm pretty sure if I had a therapist they'd call it something else. I was attending community college, it was a school show, I don't know why he was there" She's babbling, but Dick doesn't seem upset by it.

"he sought me out, I knew he was broken as soon as I met him, I was pretty broken at the time too. He said he wanted me to photograph his scars. He lifted his shirt for me right there. I followed him back to his motel room, with my camera. It was a dingy little cash only motel."

She stood up, she was uncomfortable; remembering the times in her life when she was broken. She couldn't convey to Dick what she was like, what it was like back then.

She walks into the bedroom, she doesn't hear him move, but she gets the sense that he's following her. She hasn't brought much with her from town to town, but she has a small box she's managed to hang on to. She opens it and takes out an envelop of photos. Photos of Tim. Some of her, sometimes of them together. These weren't the photos that made it into the shows, these were the snapshots. There were other photos in there. Photos of her sister Sara, of Julia the woman who raised her and Sara after the state took custody away from their respective parents.

Dick looks at the photos forlornly. "he kept his hair green?" he was looking at a photo of them from St Louis, the only other art show she did.

"Only for awhile, he used to keep it in a Mohawk, dressed all punk" She got the artshow in St Louis by pure chance. The show was actually slated for Hester Sinclair, whoever she was, she didn't make it, and they never asked for ID, it was a pretty easy scam. Nothing sold anyway. In retrospect that was whole fiasco was a bad idea, that was the first time they met Slade.

Dick's not here to watch her have inner dialogs, he's here for Tim. "At first he was really broken, he laughed all the time, he was violent. I was violent too, so it worked out. We were in love too, crazy love, destructive love. We drank too much; we experimented with drugs and sex. We fought people, not each other. At first he had money, a lot of it, enough that it seemed like it would last for ever. It ran out quickly."

She moved back to the couch. Dick followed back to his chair. "We moved all the time, we drifted, we hitchhiked, we took buses, we got odd jobs. A month in this city two months there. We were all over the southwest, and then we went to Mexico, and then further south. Rio, Buenos Aires, we even went to Lima. We backpacked through the Andes, we scraped by on little food, and little money, we worked where we could. We relied on each other. We made it"

"Finally we came back to America. We had faced all kinds of hardships together, we had healed, he didn't smile anymore, but it was ok, because I always knew when he meant to smile. I know what they did to him, I knew that not smiling was more natural to him. I guess I grew up too, after awhile we wound up in Miami, and then he left"

"Do you know where he is?" Dick asked

"I don't know where, but I know who. So awhile ago, back in St. Louis, before we went to South America, we ran into a guy named Slade Wilson" She notices Dick's posture changes at the mention of the word.

"I only saw in him in St Louis and in Rio, but I had the feeling he followed us other places too. I think that sometimes Tim would leave to meet with him without telling me."

"And you think that Slade was after Tim"

"I know Slade was after Tim, he told me, in Rio, one day I show up to my job and my bosses are dead. So I steal some of their shit and pawn it for money. I take my money to buy a drink, and Slade walks in, sits down, and tells me he wants Tim so I should let him go. I pretty much told him to fuck off, this was a couple of years ago. Tim didn't keep secrets from me before Rio, but after Rio, something was different about him, we weren't as close any more"

Dick sat back and closed his eyes. "this is really bad" was all he said.

They sat in awkward silence. "What did you do before you met Tim?"

"I would have figured you'd have looked up my biography before coming to see me"

"Pretend I haven't"

"I joined the army young. I graduated early, I shipped off just after my 17th birthday. I made it through basic, and AIT, I got my first station, in Rwanda. Shit went bad. Slaughter and mayhem kind of bad. I was a field medic, I'd been through too much bad shit before that. I didn't last long, I was given a psychiatric discharge and back stateside, didn't know what to do with my self so I went to community college, art classes, etc"

"you were a foster kid" he didn't phrase it as a question so she didn't reply. "you had an abusive mother, and the state took you away from her"

"what? You want to see the scars? Abusive doesn't cover it, the women was nuts, literally, she's in a nut house right now, probably for life. Anyone smart enough to figure out how to use an electrical socket can also probably figure out the mechanics of reproduction, which doesn't mean they should. My life has always been fucked up; I know your family has had it rough too"

If she could cry about it anymore, she probably would now. If he shows her any pity of sympathy she might anyway.

He gets up. "I have to talk to Bruce about this, he has to know about Slade"

She nods.

"Is there anything we can do to help you, you've been there for Tim when we couldn't be, if there's anything…."

"I don't need charity" she cuts him off.

"Well I'll leave my number" He pulls a business card out of his coat pocket, and leaves it on the kitchen counter. "Don't hesitate to call"

When he's gone she counts up her tips, it was over two grand. Added to her already sizable stash, she has just about reached her goal. Two more weeks and she's outta here.

She thinks about Tim, and she misses him. She misses the way he smells, and the sound of his voice, and his hand on the back of her neck. She misses wrestling him for control of the remote, and cooking his meals, and having him cook hers. She misses everything about him and she weeps.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: Not a very exciting chapter, I'm just revisiting previous events from Slade's POV, but don't worry, I have lots planned, I have the ending figured out, but it's got a long way to go before then.

* * *

When Slade found them again, they were living in Rio de Janeiro. It was pure luck, yet again that he should run into these very same youths. He had been hired to take out an American expatriate. He did not probe too far into the intentions of his client's purposes, but it wasn't necessary. This particular expatriate had notoriously been involved, though never indicted, in the disappearance of several young Brazilian women. If one were to listen to the word on the streets, that is.

That the young lady of Tim Drake's acquaintance was their domestic help was both shocking and delightful, icing on the cake. The effort of finding her domicile was simple. She made no effort to cover her tracks. She lived in a single room in a large building of similar tenets. With her long dark hair, she almost fit in with the native population, and if she didn't speak no one would know different. Her broken Portuguese always marked her as American, but her brazen attitude convinced the world that she belonged here. He saw why Tim Drake would follow this girl into the slums of Rio. Her roommate however held the interest for him. Tim Drake, formerly Robin the Boy Wonder, who also apparently lived in the slums of Rio.

He delayed his hit longer then he normally would. He liked watching her. She moved with an oblivious grace through home of her employers, unaware that she acted as though she owned it. Perfectly comfortable at all times as though every room she stepped in or street she walked through was her home.

The boy drove a bicycle taxi through the roughest parts of town. No one threatened him. Slade wasn't sure if the common street violence avoided him because Tim had established a reputation here, of if he simply rode beneath the radar. Personally, Slade suspected the former.

That the kid was top of the line in the bicycle taxi trade was obvious. He moved his clients through town with panache. He certainly was not scared of the motorized traffic or the high crime neighborhoods. He adopted her attitude to a lesser extend. The place he was, was his home. He also had a bad habit of showing up unannounced on previously lonely rooftops.

Slade only had the dimmest sense that he was being watched. He turned to face his suspected apprehender and prepared to fight. When Tim Drake stepped out of the shadows, Slade was relieved and mildly appreciative of the skills Tim had maintained.

"What are you doing here" was all Tim demanded of him.

Slade did not reply. He fired his line, he left. Better to leave him wanting.

His business could no longer be delayed. The husband put up a meager fight, the wife seemed happy that the ordeal was over.

He lingered to watch the girl show up. She assessed the dire situation, and quickly gathered the most portable of her employer's valuables, left quickly leaving no trace of her arrival. Thanks to her intercession, police would assume the murder was a robbery.

He was contemplating what, if any action he should take regarding the youths of his interest, on a rooftop not far from their tenement.

From distant rooftops he watches them talk, and more. He watches another bird he'll never have.

He was surprised and pleased when Tim interrupted his vigil later. "You like watching us fuck?" the first words out of his mouth.

Slade regarded him in the dim light; he could see potential there, wasted potential. His hair was growing in dark again. The light hearted youth was gone, replaced with something diamond hard, with a sharp edge.

"It was certainly titillating, quite a lady you've got" Slade replied, careful nonchalance behind every word.

"She's hardly a lady, why are you watching us?" the kid demands.

"I'm intrigued. Does Batman know you're here?"

"You going to tell father on me?"

"no" Slade looks at him pensively. He remembers trading witty repartee with Dick, but Dick never had the dark fire of rage that he sees smoldering in this boy. Dick had never been broken down to the base layers like Tim had, Slade could see the girl's recklessness in him too, she'd had a big hand in helping him rebuild.

"Tim" Slade starts, and the boy startles, almost violently to the use of his name "I'm leaving Rio tomorrow, you should come with me, you're wasted here"

"It's mine to waste if I want to" Tim's words fall softly.

"I could give you so much"

"I have everything I want right here" and Tim glances towards the building, toward the girl. Slade understands. The girl is the lynchpin. Even if Slade allowed her to tag along, she'd never consent to a kept life while Tim worked. She had some small potential of her own, but she'd never be truly successful in Slade's line of work, of the line of work he hopes to someday train Tim in.

Slade leaves without saying goodbye. He looks back to see the kid slowly climbing his way down the building. Without zip lines he must do such things the slow and laborious way.

The next day he meets the girl for lunch. She's drinking alone in a cantina. She took some effort to go where she would not be recognized; the expression on her face is of anticipation. He wonders who she's waiting for.

As he approaches her expression changes to one of acknowledgment. On some level she expected him or someone like him at least. Maybe she's always waiting for the killers to approach.

"You know who I am, but you're not scared" he remarks as he sits down.

She smirks at him; it's an award winning smirk, self possessed without sacrificing any mirth. "The worst you can do is torture and kill me" Her eyes sparkle with laughter that barely creeps into her voice.

They sit together in silence. She sits as though she were supremely comfortable; she doesn't find the silence awkward in the least. When the waiter returns, he orders a beer for himself, and for her. He sees her reach for her money, but he pays before she can really react.

"Why are you kids in Rio?" He asks her, keeping the tone casual.

"We're just south for the winter. Why'd you kill my boss, that was a sweet gig I had there"

He wonders if she knew she was working for a serial killer. "The gentleman in question had certain hobbies pertaining to girls of your description that I doubt you would approve of"

"I could have taken him" she says with defiance. "But you can't expect me to believe you offed him on my account"

"No" is his only reply.

They sit in silence, drinking their beers, like old acquaintances who'd shared every story and have now run out of conversation.

"Why are you here?" She finally asks him. The defiance is gone, he can detect a hint of vulnerability.

"I want to scare you away from Tim"

"Why"

"I want him"

"You can't scare me away; I'm only scared of him leaving"

"I see that now" and he does. He sees that she will never relinquish her love for Tim. As long as Tim chooses to stay with her, she will keep him there.

When the waiter returns for their empty glasses, he orders another round for each of them.

"Getting me drunk won't help, you know" and she was getting drunk. There was a slight slur to the words. Undetectable to most, but Slade catches it.

"I know" He sips his beer.

When he leaves, he wonders if she'll try to stop him, if she'll make a scene, but she doesn't.

He waits again that night on the rooftop that Tim had confronted him on, in the hopes that the boy would show up despite her. He leaves before dawn; he has a plane to catch.

* * *

He makes a point of attempting to track them in the following years. Once found, they were somewhat easier to track. He knows how they operate, how they travel. Light and quick, but they orbit around cities. They duck out of his field occasionally, only to turn up later. The Americans almost fit into the slums they inhabit, but the accent marks them apart, if you know where to look you can find them.

He makes a habit of stopping by to say hi when he's in town. Only to Tim though. He likes proving that even they can not perpetually remain unseen. Tim has kept up with the bicycle taxi it seems. The kid drives each city as though it was his native town. He memorizes the ebb and flow of traffic in a matter of days. It's become Slade's favorite way to travel when he's lucky enough to be in Tim's town.

The first few times he sat in the back of Tim's cab, the kid was rude and scornful, but eventually he abandoned that, and a gradually came to accept Slade's appearances in his life.

Tim was a smart kid; he had to know that at least some of the time, he was escorting Slade to another man's death. That he no longer felt an obligation to stop Slade was definitely a good sign.

The one time Slade tentatively offered yet again to take Tim under his wing he was rebuked; violently. It took all his skill to make dodging Tim's blows look easy.

Slade hadn't given up hope on his apprentice.

When the pair finally made it back to American soil (sneaking across the border like illegal Mexican immigrants to avoid customs) Slade was pleased. He liked the idea of keeping them close at hand. They stayed in Austin for awhile; she got a job in a restaurant, and bought a car. They were becoming quite domestic.

Slade finally began to sense some restlessness from Tim during his increasingly frequent trips by bicycle taxi. The glamour of their foreign adventures didn't linger into the dreary life they were etching out here.

When they moved to Atlanta, they didn't stay long. Some wanderlust seemed to drive one or both of them to keep moving, keep looking. In Miami they rented another apartment, a dingy basement apartment. When Slade settled into the back of Tim's cab here, he sensed a change. He broached the forbidden subject again "Your wings seem clipped" Tim only grunted his reply, but Slade got the sense that he was hitting a nerve.

When Slade exited he left a box in the back seat. A zip line. A reminder.

Slade deliberately waits two weeks before he seeks Tim out again. He gets into the cab. He senses immediately a tension, an irritation within Tim. "Where to?" Tim asks.

"Hong Kong" Slade replies, as though it were a logical request.

"Can't get you there by bike Mister", but there is a hint of light in the boy's voice.

"I know" Slade pauses, dramatically. "Just take me around down town; I want to see the sights"

The kid turns to his task, Slade tries hard to discern his mood, but it remains a mystery to him. He sits in the back of the cab and allows himself to be cycled around downtown Miami.

When they near the financial district Slade asks to be let off. He doesn't wait to see the kid's reaction to the note he slipped in the envelope. Apprehensive doesn't really cover his emotions at the moment, and he has a flight to catch.

When he arrives in Hong Kong he has no choice but to wait. See if the kid took the leap or not. That morning he had felt certain that the time to act was now, currently he thinks that maybe the kid needed more time.

When a dark haired blued eyed bird steps through customs Slade smiles.


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note. This is a short chapter. I had originally written more, but I deleted at least half of it. Sometimes I feel that telling too much of the story is wrong as well. Between this and last chapter I wanted to do some more from Slade and Tim's point of view. This is a fan fiction after all so I need to make sure I include my fandoms. I like to write Alice because I created her, and I know how she will react to circumstances more clearly, but I don't want to go too heavy on my original character.

* * *

Tim's flying. No safety lines, no nets, he's airborne. Flight is freedom. The hiss of the zip line, the thrill of the leap, the inertia when he hits the end of the slag and his hands feel like they couldn't possibly be able to hold their grip but of course they always do.

Flight is freedom. Not freedom like Alice knew it; she was free in a much higher sense. He wonders what she would do up here. If she would take the zip line, and fire it and jump. He's pretty sure she would. That she could fall and die would be the least of her concerns. He pictured her as she would be on this rooftop, and in his imagination her hair whips in the wind, and she smiles as she fires the line, and if he stood real close he could hear her whisper "bonanza jellybean" as she laughs and leaps. He knows that if her grip slipped she would still be laughing. That's freedom as Alice understands it, as she tried to teach him. For all his love, he couldn't be free like her. He is a bird, flight is freedom. She couldn't give that to him.

He soars over rooftops. Conveyance by skyline was superfluous. He could have driven, he chose not too. He reaches his targeted building; the security system on the roof was pitiable. Forty second floor, room 417. The action is quick; it's over before the mark has time to be alarmed. He stands over the man's still body, an accountant who cooked the wrong books. He pictures what Alice would say right now, probably something like "the difference between life and death is negligible at best" he remembers a time they found the corpse of a child in some slum (all the slums run together after all the cities), she didn't feel pity for the child. Death was just something else you did after awhile.

He leaves the building the same way he came in. He flies. Not home, but close enough for now. Slade is waiting for him when he arrives.

"how'd it go?"

"Easy" Tim replies, the smile is in his voice, though not on his face.

"you should have driven, it would have been less likely to draw attention" Slade said.

"I wanted to fly" Slade seems to get it; he knows how birds think, so he smiles indulgently at Tim's words. He gave Tim everything, zip lines and gear, and flight, and his requests in return seem so trivial when compared with freedom. Except he took Tim away from Alice. No, Tim thought, he chose to leave Alice. This wasn't her kind of freedom.

He smiles at Slade. He's not sure yet if Slade has figured out that all his smiles lack authenticity, but a smile seemed appropriate in the context. Slade reacts by smiling back, ruffling his hair as though he were a child again. It must have been the correct response.

"Dinner is just about ready" Slade announced, but Tim was aware of that the moment he stepped through the door. He could smell it, meat of some type, probably roast. Slade was what his mom used to call 'a meat and potatoes kinda guy'. Tim doesn't have the heart to tell him that he misses the simple meals Alice used to make, she ate what she had to, but she preferred not to eat meat.

After dinner they trained. Tim already knew how to fight and how to move. The last few years had made him lean and tough. Slade honed that into precision. There was no room for error. No distractions from the target, and no sentimentality. These things were weaknesses. Tim soaked it in.

When he sleeps in his room, it's eerie and quiet. Her breath had grown raspy from the cigarettes. He had found it disturbing and soothing at the same time. It's at night; in the vacuum of silence that Tim doubts his decision to come here. It's when he misses her most. He knows he could sleep in Slade's room. Slade made it clear without being obtrusive that Tim was welcome, and Tim did not find him unattractive. But he would never be Alice. He wonders if Slade's cigars give his lips the same taste as her nicotine poison. If Slade's hands had calluses in completely unexpected places like her hands did. If he would smile and laugh like she would.

Two weeks later he stood silently outside Slade's door. He wondered what Alice felt the first time she followed Tim to his motel room. If she felt trepidation like this. He thinks not, she was always intrepid, he follows that thought, he wonders if even now she is intrepid. If she is now standing in someone else's motel room wearing her Cheshire grin. He's lost in that thought when the door opens. Slade doesn't say anything, he opens the door, and he stands aside, beckoning Tim to enter. The room is more ornate then called for, the bed, overly large. When Slade kisses him, Tim tastes nicotine, but the beard brushes his face steals any chance the illusion ever had. 'Intrepid' he tells himself, and he can't pretend he is with Alice, but she's there with him anyway. He smiles, a real Cheshire grin, and it's genuine, but he doubts Slade notices the difference.

Later when he thinks 'huh, so that's what it's like with a man' he pictures Alice grinning at him. If she was here she would give him a high five. She would say something snarky. She was always wholly inappropriate in circumstances like these.

Slade was entirely appropriate. He pushed a sweat dampened lock of hair from Tim's face. He laid lingering kisses and pulled Tim close. He's pretty sure that Slade pretends Tim is another blue eyed bird. They don't talk about the people who aren't there.

Life goes on. Slade runs him through tougher and more challenging training exercises, and sends him on more demanding missions. He watches more then a few eyes grow dull and lifeless. Death is just something else you do after awhile.

With Slade's crafting he becomes ruthless and efficient, and cold. Alice was his fire, but she wasn't his freedom.


	9. Chapter 9

Remaining alive was exceptionally thrilling to Slade at that particular moment. Standing on a battlefield strewn with the corpses of your enemy gives one an epic feeling of victory. Actually in this case it was a cramped laboratory, not a battlefield. The victorious feeling remained the same however. He was no fool, this had not been an easy battle, there had been unforeseeable circumstances, but Slade hadn't stood against the odds alone. At his side had stood his apprentice, his partner, Tim Drake, who now stands defiantly, sagging slightly from fatigue. The adrenaline was wearing off; the kid did not have Slade's augmented endurance.

"Good job, Kid" he says. Tim only stands there, wearing his pride in the set of his shoulders, he should be smiling; he should be exuberant. It took Slade a long time to realize that the kid didn't smile, never truly. Sometimes the kid lied, but those didn't count. The kid should be smiling right now, like Slade. He had held his own admirably. When he fights, he is lean and hungry, compact and efficient; he had stood by Slade through a battle that would give lesser men nightmares.

They had come to this hellhole for a reason though; they weren't here for the slaughter. There was no way Slade could have known the League of Assassins was after the same property, but it did not change their objective. Slade cleaned the blade of his sword, sheathed it then set to hacking the laboratory's computer. After a moment to catch his breath, the kid quietly moved to his own mission, cracking the safe. Slade had to hand it to the boy; he was quite skilled at cracking even the most protected of safes with a delicate precision that Slade himself could only envy.

And hour later they were disposing the bodies in the laboratory incinerator. Quite fortuitous that such equipment was available. The data from the computer was safely stored on two SD cards, Slade had one, and had given a backup to Tim. The micro processor prototype the lab had built was in a case built specifically to safely transport it, and strapped to Tim's hip. Their enemies had fallen; the property obtained, a pretty good day.

"Let's go home" he tells the boy. Not much of a boy anymore, Slade can't help but thinking of him that way. A young man in his twenties, lean and fit for his age. He smiles at the kid, but isn't really surprised that the kid doesn't smile back.

Later at home he sees how much damage the kid had really taken. There were several gashes scabbed over that ran dangerously close to killing blows; Slade had to carefully clean the dried blood and stitch the edges together properly so they would heal with minimal scar. They had won, the benefit outweighed the cost, but Slade did not want to think how close it had actually been for his bird. His bird, he strokes the boy's face possessively. Wide blue eyes, eyes that burn, stare at him but the kid remains otherwise passive. Totally at rest, even years since the boy had seen her, the girl's influence, her way of belonging in any room, remained within the kid.

"Lay back" Slade tells him and the kid smiles that fake smile of his. Slade is pretty sure the boy still thinks he can wear it convincingly. Slade retrieves a locked case from a hidden safe. The case unlocks to reveal a vial of clear liquid, the print on the label is small and indistinguishable from any amount of distance. From a drawer he removes a sterile syringe in a sealed package. The kid follows him with his eyes, never moving from the spot.

"Are you sure?" The kid's voice is calm and certain even when questioning, part of that je ne sais pas attitude of his.

"Are you?" Slade replies. The kid knows what's in the vial. The serum. The serum that made Slade invincible. Today was close, the kid made it; lives to bear the scars of it, but the odds are not stacked in Slade's favor these days, or the kid's and they both know it. Too many players in the field, too many of them are meta. Even the line between the good guys and the bad guys is getting blurry in the over crowded arena

And it's past time for this. He has held off on this final step to seal the boy to him. The kid really was more like his partner now; he held his own weight in the family business. Slade knows the boy still thinks about Alice almost every day, misses Alice every day, and Slade knows he himself misses another bird who never really was his. For better or worse though, this partnership is going to be forever.

"Bout time mister" the kid says, there is a cocky tone to his voice that wasn't there before. Slade looks and sees a sly expression slide across the boy's face, and a smile that is almost genuine. That is genuine.

There really isn't a need to prep the injection site with an alcohol swab, when this is over the kid will be immune to infection. Slade does it anyway. When the needle is prepared he looks the kid once more in those deep blue eyes of his. "This really what you want, Kid?"

"I'd be crazy to say no"

"I'm not wholly convinced you're sane anyway" Slade says as he slides the needle home.

The next two hours are rough, the kid quickly lost consciousness, but then the seizures started. They began quietly, barely shaking the kid's body but growing in force and frequency, until Tim's body was wracked with them. Slade had to restrain him to prevent self injury. Hours passed this way.

When the kids blue eyes finally cracked open, Slade worried that he would see psychosis blurring them. Instead the boy regarded him with calm clear blue eyes. "how long was I out" he croaked, his voice dry.

"Almost two hours"

The kid looked at the gashes Slade had stitched only a few hours before. They were healed, the sutures could be removed.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note, this is the second to last chapter.

…………………

Tim is watching the target from a distant rooftop. Specifically Tim is watching the Target through a high powered scope attached to an equally high powered rifle from a discreet distance. The wind is fierce at this height. If Alice was here, her long hair would be whipped every which way. Her lighter would never stay lit long enough to combust the cigarette she would inevitably want to smoke. If she was here.

On the ground Slade is negotiating with the target. This doesn't necessarily have to end in violence. Just in case though, Tim is hunkered down, eye to the scope.

The target is an alien. There are too many of those on Earth today. This particular alien had gotten upset when an American company began to market some of their technology. Very upset. The American company was wealthy, wealthy enough to earn Slade's time and attention.

Tim really didn't want it to go badly. From this vantage he could really only offer Slade limited support. Slade trusted him implicitly. It wasn't many people who were allowed watch Slade conducting negotiations from the business end of a rifle scope.

Of course it goes south. Relax, aim, squeeze. The rifle doesn't even kick; Apokolips technology. Cost more then this job would earn them. Worth every penny. Pop, Pop, Pop, three of the aliens are down, three remain. Slade has his sword drawn, Tim would love to just watch, but he has work to do. Drawing his jump cord, he flies across the rooftops in time to land next to Slade and parry a blow. The leader is still alive. They need the leader alive. Death could mean intergalactic conflict.

Tim likes this part best. He feels most alive, most like the boy he used to be. He wishes most that Alice was here during fights. To see him. To be proud of him. Some voice in the back of his head says that Alice was always proud of him, but she never got to see him like this. Fierce. Controlled. She only ever saw him in scraps and tussles. Not at his peak.

The injuries he sustains are minimal. They heal quickly; he doesn't even pay them heed.

When the alien's bodyguards are gone, he is more open to negotiations. Slade handles it from here. Slade takes care of all the customer relations; that's not Tim's job.

Later they return to a rented house in the suburbs. It's an old house, large, one of several properties Tim maintains in this city. Tim manages their property. That's his job.

He likes being a home owner. Fifty weeks out of the year, he's not even here. But when he is, he takes great joy in mowing the lawn. He likes tinkering with the water pressure valve to the shower or ordering tiles for the bathroom he'll seldom ever see. Every kitchen in every property he owns is arranged roughly the same for convenience, with the same high end Teflon pans he prefers, the same kitchen gadgets in the same drawers, the same spices stocked. If you count the apartments and condos he may have over thirty total. Some of them he hasn't seen since he signed the deal and ordered the drapes.

Perk of the job, more money then you reasonably could spend in a life time. It's convenient too. He hates hotels.

The house has all the amenities of home, and to a degree, all the properties he maintains are interchangeably home to him. To them. He usually travels with Slade, more or less.

Despite his attempts to add a 'homey' quality, every house he owns remains aseptic. Still better then a hotel. Alice would hate it; she never minded the squat houses or dingy apartments they rented, as long as they had character. The less claim she had to her dwelling, the more freedom she felt to abandon it. She didn't need to find a home, she was always home.

In the kitchen laid out exactly like it should, Tim prepares their meal. Stir fry with tofu and vegetables. Slade will disapprove, but he'll also get over it. If he wanted something else, he could damn well make his own meal.

Tim knew well enough to know that there was something seriously dysfunctional about his social habits, or lack there of. Slade was the only human he had regular contact with any more. Sure his fists made regular contact with others, but that didn't really count.

After dinner he has time to pursue his own hobbies. He cleans his gun, refills the ammo pouch on his armor for next time. Examines the armor from the days fight to make sure it did not suffer any damage, reads the news online, does some background work for potential future assignments.

On the lowers corner of his netbook, a pop up alerts him to activity on one of his custom RSS feed programs. Visa card ending in 5567 was used in the amount of 45.88 at the Dickey Bub in Stanley, ND. Alice's debit card. He shouldn't follow her like this. Firstly, he knows she would hate his surveillance, secondly, he hates seeing proof that she has changed. The Alice he loved would never have had a debit card. He has this perfect image of how she was, in St. Louis, where he loved her most. The idea that she might not be that wild eyed girl anymore was saddening. Many times he has resisted the urge to see her; he doesn't want to know the girl who paid for 45.88 worth of goods and services at a store named Dickey Bub in rural North Dakota.

The next day he flies to California by himself. The job was simple; it only required one of them.

He stayed two nights in his condo overlooking downtown Los Angelos. After the assignment was dead, he flew to meet Slade in Budapest. He did not own property around Budapest, Slade had obtained very luxurious hotel dwellings for them. It wasn't the same. Budapest was an espionage gig. He doesn't like these cloak and dagger maneuvers as much. He feels guilty for it, but the simple assassinations are always his favorite job. Slade smiles at him as he explains Tim's role. A bicycle taxi would be needed. It was almost enough to make Tim smile back.

The emotion he feels when he realizes Budapest is going to actually be a challenge is almost relief. There was a crew of meta humans. In his old days he would have classified them as villains, although it's entirely possibly they classify themselves as heroes. Or maybe they don't use those signifiers anymore; he's out of touch with the community. He should have brought the Apokolitian rifle. For a few minutes there existed a very real possibility that this crew could defeat him and Slade. Maybe even kill them, these 'heroes' today are not as particular as Tim thinks they ought to be. To face uncertain odds, was invigorating.

Tim and Slade win, of course, they always win, but someday Tim knows they won't. And it only takes once. That's the part he likes best, the uncertainty. He knows he's going to live forever, unless of course he dies violently first.

When they leave Budapest they don't have any particular work lined up. They go to New York. His favorite home, the one he sees most often is in New York.

From his bed he reads the news online. The daily flow of politics, economics and violence are trailing across his screen when he sees a pop up on the RSS reader; 145.09 at a veterinary hospital. In his head he can picture her quite clearly. Somehow he knows it's a cat, a stray rescue. He wonders what she named it, or if she named it at all.

The next day he buys a ticket to Minot, North Dakota, the only town near her with a big enough airport.


	11. Chapter 11

So I realized that the tone of the story is vastly different then when I started. I'm sorry. It's the story I wanted to write, I wanted to write a story where in the end, the girl is ok. I think there might be an epilogue left in me. One last sum up of how things went from Tim's POV.

…………………………………

She parks the car outside her house, pops the trunk and gathers up her grocery bags. It's not much but its home. Four miles away from the nearest civilization, just the way she likes it these days. The cat is waiting by the door to get in as she opens it. It's not locked, she never locks her door. She hits the switch to turn off the porch light as she walks in. The porch light is green, it reminds her of kryptonite

The cat followed her in; she never named the cat, which seemed appropriate.

Setting her groceries down on the kitchen counter she kicks off her shoes and starts putting things away. Tinned vegetables, dried pasta, not much that needs to be refrigerated, the power often goes out, it's better not to over stock the fridge.

She walks out the back door in her bare feet, hitting the back light as she does. The light in back is not green. She grabs the hose and waters her garden. Tomato, squash, corn, beans. Her babies she grew from seeds.

She walks back in. He'd been there all along. He hadn't even been hiding. He had sat at her kitchen table silently while she put away her groceries, while she watered her plants. She hadn't known what to say to him, so she had ignored him, but she knows he's not going to leave until she talks to him. She returns to the kitchen, starts to microwave some water for tea. When the tea is ready she sits down in the other kitchen chair.

"Why'd you let yourself in, you don't live here"

"The door wasn't locked"

"Door's never locked, doesn't make it ok"

She doesn't smile; she has no more smiles for Tim.

"Why are you here, Tim"

She never used to address him by name.

"To see you Alice"

She regards him across the brim of her mug "What made you think I wanted to see you" Bitterness is creeping into her voice.

"You probably don't" He's not affected by the malice in her voice, "I still love you"

"Fuck you Boy Wonder, you didn't even say goodbye, so go fuck yourself , or fuck Slade, I don't care who you fuck, just fuck off" Her voice is growing louder, there's anger and emotion behind her words.

"I just wanted to tell you that I missed you" he says as he stands, scooting the chair under the table.

"I miss smoking, don't see me lighting up"

"I'm glad you quit" he says, and he smiles. It's a sad smile, but genuine. She almost waivers when she sees it, almost gives in and runs to him, to hug him, but she's not the kind of girl who needs him any more.

"Goodbye Alice."

He shuts the door behind him; she remains seated at the small kitchen table. When she's sure he's gone she washes her mug in the sink and feeds the cat.

She wished she had a cigarette.

She used to say "the worst you can do is torture and kill me" and she had always meant it.

After the sun sets she steps out on her back porch. "I don't know if you're there, but I just want you to know, the worst you can do is walk out on me without saying goodbye"

She goes in, she pets the cat, and she watches a movie on her fuzzy TV in her pajamas and slippers. She tucks herself into bed. Just as she's starting to fall asleep she thinks she hears him whisper "I said goodbye this time" It wasn't enough she wants to tell him, but she's already drifted off to sleep.

The next day she pulls into her job at the Moto Mart. When she first moved here, the locals had eyed her warily, outsiders don't move in to this area often. It had taken them several months to warm up to her. Now she's one of them. She trades easy gossip with the old people who stop by in the morning for coffee and a newspaper. When June Clovis pulls her lumbering old Chevrolet up to the pump, she steps out the help the little blue haired lady pump the fuel. She finds out from Sheriff Ayers, when he stops by for his daily coffee and doughnut, that the Gerald's boy had another car accident and laments with him that the boy is past due to grow up. She knows almost everyone who stops in on a first name basis. They smile to see her, they're happy to see her.

It's not a life she ever expected. Days here are lazy and slow. When she steps outside, the clear blue sky stretches around her in every direction. On a good day there's not a cloud in the North Dakota sky. So things could be better, her house could be better. She bought it cash from her stripper funds. The gutters leak, and the windows are poorly set, sometimes the power cuts out. It's hers outright and no body in the world but her can call it their own. When the bad winter came last year, Geoff Grundy, her nearest neighbor drove four miles on his tractor to make sure she was ok. He wouldn't leave until she accepted his spare two mile radio and a thermos of his wife's soup. She used to be free as a bird, and it was beautiful, but somehow now, this seems better.

It's a shame Tim couldn't stick around to share this with her.

…………………

Its several years before she sees him again. She's living at her sister's outside of Chicago. North Dakota had been good for her. It set her straight, but the time had come to move on. She sold her house in North Dakota, packed up the cat and moved when her sister, Sara, told her about her impending divorce. She likes it here; the kids fill the house with life. She has a place here, a family, and a purpose.

She got a job cooking at a trendy vegetarian restaurant. She no longer pursues art, she almost burned her prints, they were from a bad time in her life, but she kept them, in boxes under her bed. The kids doubled up in one room, so she could have the smallest bedroom to herself.

There are things here to keep her busy, jiujutsu classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She had started seeing one of the guys from class occasionally. They see movies together, eat out together.

She watches the kids when Sara is working. Sam and Charlotte. Sam's 7, Charlotte's 5. She takes them to baseball practice and dance class. They rent movies at the video store and play soccer in the park when the weather is nice.

It's not as exciting as her life used to be, but it's a good life.

She's not really surprised when Tim shows up. He turns up at her jiujutsu class, introduces himself as Gary, and fumbles through the maneuvers like a clumsy beginner when she knows she could polish the floor with the rest of her class.

He smiles at her, but she doesn't think it's a legitimate smile, and winks when they are paired up for partner practice. She pins him down, but she's certain that he's letting her.

When he asks her out for coffee after class, she smiles and agrees. Her boyfriend scowls at them, but she ignores him.

They go to a diner down the street. She orders coffee and a slice of apple pie. He just gets coffee.

"What are you doing in Chicago?" She asks first.

"Business" he replies, he voice is light and playful though, and there's a sparkle in his eyes.

"When did you learn to smile again?" she asks as she pours non-dairy creamer single serve cups into her coffee and stirs it.

"Recently" is all he replies. "Mind if I smoke?"

"I thought you hated smoking, it's going to kill you" she said, incredibility at his new habit evident in her tone.

"Naw, won't kill me, and I like the smell, reminds me of Rio" she remembers she had just started smoking when they had lived in Brazil. That was a lifetime ago. "Why don't you take photos any more?"

"Heart's just not in it I guess" the flat tone of her voice brooks no argument.

"I like the hair" he said, he lifted one hand to her face to brush one of her short locks away from her face. She doesn't react to his touch, just smiles in reply to his words. Not a real smile, not her brutally honest smile she used to have. It's more of a brittle hollow smile.

They drink their coffee. They don't converse much.

"I miss you Tim" she starts," but I'm not the girl you used to love"

"What happened to her?"

"She grew up", and this time she smiles boldly.

He got the bill.

"Is it OK if stop by when I'm in town?"

"I guess" Her reply was not enthusiastic.

That night she lays awake in bed, remembering the old times, good times, wondering when exactly she had started to change. To become a grown up. There was a feeling in her chest almost exactly like a heart ache. Like a hollow spot she didn't know how to fill. On the bureau is an unopened pack of smokes. She bought them at the corner store on her way home. She used to smoke to destroy herself, but she's reasonably certain that's not what she wants any more. She doesn't know what she wants any more.

Was it in Miami? Did she turn a new leaf in Miami and decide that she wants to survive? To make the most of it. Was it when Tim left? Or later at the strip club when she realized she could save enough to make a future. Was it North Dakota when she finally started to give a care for anyone else?

She pulls out her box of photos, she hadn't looked at these in years. The scar on Tim's shoulder, he hardly looked any older when she saw him earlier tonight. The scar in the photo cuts across his shoulder, it's ragged and angry and turns purple in the winter. And one on his hip, this one never changes color, it's like a crater in his flesh, like a scoop was taken out and never filled back in, its smoother then it looks and tastes different then the rest of his skin.

When she can't take any more of the hollow empty feeling that's not quite like a heartache she puts the photos away. She calls her boyfriend, he agrees to meet her for a drink a the pub. They talk about the latest restaurants to open in town, and about the local politics. She goes back to his place, she just doesn't want to feel empty.

Their relationship doesn't last long she was only dating him because he reminded her of Tim. She meet someone else before they had even broken up. The new guy smiled, and had a golden beard that caught sunlight (and sometimes soup) Brown eyes shone. He took 'at risk' kids camping. Worked eight weeks on, four weeks off. It didn't take her long to get a job there too. They paddled across miles of river and hiked across mountains with the kids. It was amazing. She remembered all the lessons Tim had taught her when they traveled across South America. Which plants she could eat, how to find water, how to navigate in new terrain, she remembered them all (well most of them).

It was a good life. Some terrible things have definitely happened to her in this lifetime. The scars on her feet, the mother in jail, the scars on her heart, but when she's up here on this mountain watching the sun set, she realizes she's going to be ok.


End file.
